


love letters to the crawling rot

by absolutelybonkered



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Purple Prose, appropriate corruption-level grossness, me gushing about the crawling rot because it FUCKS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:09:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/absolutelybonkered/pseuds/absolutelybonkered
Summary: various drabbles concerning the intricacies of The Corruption, done out of my love for it as a concept. Other entities may also make an appearance, but so far it's mostly concept/statement-esque pieces revolving around toxic relationships, filth, and rot.specific tags for each drabble will be in beginning notes!
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	1. it's an instinctive thing.

**Author's Note:**

> vague descriptions of parasites and germs, mentions of like. mold. just gross stuff

It's an instinctive thing. You do not look under your fridge, or in the back of your cabinets, or behind your toilets, or into your drains, because it is there. You can just  _ feel _ it. You  _ know _ it. Should you reach your bare hand into these taboo places you might encounter something slick, viscous, slimy, grubby, or maybe something that crawls. And maybe it will crawl back up your offered limb now that you have opened yourself up to it, you've touched it, and so it can touch you in return.

And so you learn to stay on well-trodden paths, shy away from dark and dank corners. What could be in them, sequestered away from the liveliness of the mobile, the ever changing world. Well, they change too, in their own ways. They change  _ together _ , is the thing. Things that shift and change in one spot, in warm and dark and wet places, never transform alone. It is not  _ lonely _ in these corners. The things will find you there, insert themselves into your skin, your flesh, your bones, your rotten core and they will encourage a shifting. It is a natural, instinctive thing. A process undertaken in multitudes, until the many coalesce into one writhing and festering one, an alignment of many differences to become a whole, codependent. 

It is a natural, instinctive and  _ beautiful _ thing.

What a joy it is. What an honor. What an inevitability.

And it does not wait for your permission. It is always lurking, always waiting for an opening. A weakness. It is cold and empty on your lonesome, without a community. It needs a home, and it knows where best to foster one. And so do you. You know it to be in your warm coils of organs, your sweet pump of blood that so easily curdles and sours and rots under your skin. You're taught in grade schools of bad germs, of parasites, that will sneak into what makes you  _ you  _ if you're not careful. Wash your hands, check expiration dates, disinfect scraped knees, be careful when looking for bugs.

But there always comes a day when you will be lacking. You will be touched, or you will have touched, and you will have invited them. And you've touched something so horrific that you cannot speak for unknowable amounts of time for fear that it might find the open space of your mouth inviting and call it a home. And you are crushed under the fear that the skin you wear is no longer just your own, that something else might be sharing it underneath, with you, snug and warm and wet against your nerves. In the spaces between your ribs.

It is so  _ cozy, _ there.

You should learn to share.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you leave a comment i will kiss you directly on the lips (platonically) (unless-)


	2. corruption/spiral combo wip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> headache/migraine adjacent descriptions, brief reference to parasites, wip.

Have you ever looked at something that felt like it was splitting your head open at the seams? Digging into the opening of your pupil, searing itself into the back of your optic nerve, forcing its way through into the fleshy lobes of your brain, alighting your cerebrospinal fluid into flashing neon and seeming to fry the very cells of your mind? Every thought flashing like a violent strobe light, like you'd rubbed your eyes one time too vigorously and now every blink brings a pop of color- only it is every stutter-step of your contemplation and so everything inside your skull is thrown into dramatic shadows and burning, vivid brights. Your eyes feel like they want to pop and the skin of your face feels like it is too tight, like it might burst with every pound of your heartbeat. Your head becomes a brilliant cacophony of experience and your body has never felt more like the weight at the end of a balloon string, a piloted meat suit that is keeping you grounded. It has to change. 

You have to spread this becoming down throughout every nerve of your body, or else you'll be cleaved in two unequal parts right at the neck. The buzz flash-bang bright of your head simply- separating, from the unenlightened electrified meat of your body. And, god, the thought that what you had seen had penetrated the very core of your being, was slowly sinking down through your veins to spread that luminous infection is as horrifying as it is a relief. God, god, god. It  _ hurts. _ You  _ ache. _

It- It's like- you've hit your elbow, your funny bone, and the waves of static that arise from it don't stop. They echo throughout every corner of your body, and they stop feeling so acute. Buzzing that turns into flexes of something writhing, squirming, but that would be improbable. Nothing has happened that could ever imply that you weren't the sole occupant of your skin. You haven't done anything that you weren't supposed to, surely haven't invited anything in. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trying to iron out how i want to explore this specific intersection of these two sexy entities, mainly for my own avatarsona. I'll revisit it at some point, but i wanted to try my hand at conveying mental/psychological pain as a literal, body-wide physical pain. A weakness of the psyche letting in something horrid to nestle in the deepest parts of you, perhaps literally. perhaps not. that's the spiral babey


	3. strawberries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reference to neglectful/abusive parenting, description of rotting fruit.

There is a package of strawberries rotting in the fridge.

What once was so ripe and red and full is becoming dull and sunken and festering and there is nothing to be done about it.

An irrational fear of touching something you ought not to keeps prying, hungry fingers from opening the lid and seeing the ever slowly creeping carnage- lurid red _wet_ settles along the bottom and pale white powder grows along the top and it is a slow thing. A careful infection. What might be possible to save is damned to sit in its vulnerability, the inch of death only drawn out longer, ever more excruciating, by the cold trying to claw it back. It is an unwinnable, unnoticed, unremarkable descent. Soon, every natural substance gathered in that close space will be gone to rot.

You feel you and your mother growing ever distant, space between you ever souring.

So many things left unattended these days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something something rotten familial relationships. i'm very proud of this sexy little motherfucker


End file.
